


followed your course, near to remorse

by playingforkeeps



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Dex Never Went To Samwell, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Miscommunication, also, barista work is hell, canon-typical alcohol use, i'm a slut for miscommunication fics, the sight of an espresso machine now gives me flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9395681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playingforkeeps/pseuds/playingforkeeps
Summary: Out of the corner of his eye, Will registers a black apron to his left, probably Dylan by the door. And maybe it’s bad shoes or someone spilled cream earlier, but as he turns, his feet careen out from under him. He manages to stay on his feet by the grace of some higher coffee-shop power, but soymilk sloshes all over both him and the black apron, soaking them both.“JesusChrist, Dylan, would you watch where you’re fucking—”Except the apron isn’t an apron. It’s a black tank top, despite the bitter cold outside, and the guy wearing it definitely isn’t Dylan. He’s staring at the book in his hand, which is also covered with soymilk and probably totally unreadable. He’s also extraordinarily pretty in a kind of disarming way. Not hot—yeah, he’s built, but it’s something a little more than that, all big green eyes and full, parted lips. As Will tries to say something, he turns his gaze on Will, raising his eyebrows almost imperceptibly.Oh, Will issogetting fired for this.The coffeeshop au, from someone who truly hated barista work.





	

Here is the kind of day Will has had:

He woke up to an email from his compstat teacher to inform him that she doesn’t have the project he _knows_ he turned in early, which means she lost it and is going to blame him;

Some asshole bumped into him and knocked his calc notes into a puddle without apologizing because frankly, fuck Massachusetts and all its inhabitants;

He turned up three minutes to work, which put Craig in a mood all afternoon;

And he’s working closing shift, which means he’ll barely have the energy to do his homework tonight. It’s like that kid’s book— _Will’s Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day_ —which, according to the clock, doesn’t end for another six hours.

Behind the counter, Dylan hums something poppy as she sweeps the floor. She looks up as he comes out of the bathroom and nods an acknowledgement, jerking her chin toward the counter. “Milk needs refilling. Soy and skim.”

“Cool,” Will answers halfheartedly. “I’ll, uh, do that then. He heads back to grab both from the fridge and narrowly dodges her reaching out to ruffle his hair. 

“I do love our little talks!”, she calls over his shoulder. “So energetic and lively!”

Will ignores her. The store, for once, is blessedly empty, no white women fresh off Zumba yelling at him for not using two percent in their lattes or teens asking for a fifth scoop of mocha powder. He knows they’ll get hit by the afternoon rush pretty soon, but now he needs to enjoy the only rest he’ll get all day.

Out of the corner of his eye, Will registers a black apron to his left, probably Dylan by the door. And maybe it’s bad shoes or someone spilled cream earlier, but as he turns, his feet careen out from under him. He manages to stay on his feet by the grace of some higher coffee-shop power, but soymilk sloshes all over both him and the black apron, soaking them both.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Dylan, would you watch where you’re fucking—”

Except the apron isn’t an apron. It’s a black tank top, despite the bitter cold outside, and the guy wearing it definitely isn’t Dylan. He’s staring at the book in his hand, which is also covered with soymilk and probably totally unreadable. He’s also extraordinarily pretty in a kind of disarming way. Not hot—yeah, he’s built, but it’s something a little more than that, all big green eyes and full, parted lips. As Will tries to say something, he turns his gaze on Will, raising his eyebrows almost imperceptibly.

Oh, Will is _so_ getting fired for this.

"Fucking _fuck_ ," Will manages, and there's fireable offense number two because that's exactly the kind of day he's having. Green Eyes is still staring with this expression that's halfway between disbelief and delight. He's got a birthmark just above his lip, like one of those old French movies. Behind the counter, Dylan's dustpan creaks a little, just enough to remind Will that he's standing staring at a customer instead of apologizing and he should really be updating his resume right about now, since he'll probably be job hunting in about fifteen minutes.

Green Eyes breaks the silence first. "Well," he says, "it's really fucking lucky that was soy."

Will does not respond.

"Derek Nurse," Green Eyes says, putting out his hand. "And allergic to dairy, so thanks for being conscious of that. Sorry." His face relaxes into an easy grin, one that spreads from the center of his face and goes a little crooked at the edge.

Will stares at the hand like it might bite him. He shoves his own hand through his hair, belatedly curses himself because now his hair is full of fucking soy residue too, and shakes Green Eyes—Derek—'s hand a beat past awkwardness. "I’m Will. Poindexter. And Jesus Christ, man, I'm sorry about your book. I mean—we'll be sure to refund you the full value of your property, and may I offer you a complimentary drink?"

He sends up a silent prayer to the gods of coffee: _Please don't ask for the manager. I can't take that right now._

Derek shakes his head and holds up the book. It's _On The Road_ , which Will vaguely remembers the SparkNotes version of. "Chill, dude. It's Kerouac. Barely worth the paper it's printed on, you know? It was like eight bucks anyway." He leans past Will and tosses the book, which is worth approximately forty-eight minutes on the clock, in the trash. "I'll take the drink, though, if it's on you."

There's a small part of Will that could swear the last bit came with a slightly appraising look. Like Derek wasn't quite checking him out but definitely thinking about it. He mentally scolds the irritatingly loud bisexual voice in his brain and heads toward the counter with a forced-casual, "Yeah, what can I get you?"

Now Derek is definitely smirking a little; he takes his time looking over the menu, and after a moment asks, "The syrup, is that organic?"

They've landed safely back in Will's comfort zone. "The flavored ones aren't, but we do have organic agave if you like that."

Syrup, he reminds himself, is a professional topic with no application to pretty guys, which is a train of thought that’s going to lead to thoughts about pouring syrup on pretty guys, and that's a rabbit hole he just doesn't have time for right now. 

"Cool. Can I have an iced macchiato, venti, with a little agave? And, uh, soy milk, to go with the general decor I've got going on."

Will cringes. It's not subtle. “Seriously man, I'm so sorry about that. If there's anything I can do to make up for it…”

He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly. There isn't really a lot he can do, not until next paycheck. Derek, perhaps by some divine intervention of the coffee gods, shakes his head.

“Look, man, I wasn't looking where I was going. It happens, and that's on me. No biggie.”

Will’s shoulders relax, and he manages something akin to a smile. Across the counter, Derek’s grin tugs on the corner of his eyes. There’s a half-second where they’re just grinning at each other like idiots until Dylan, who has completely given up on sweeping and is just openly staring, coughs. “Oh, right,” Will nods. “Lemme get on that.”

As he goes through the motions—pouring the milk, pulling the shot—he can still feel Derek’s eyes on him. And it’s not like Will doesn’t catch himself looking once or twice; the sunlight is catching his hair, reflecting gold off the black, like a old painting. When he finally manages to get the drink out, he doesn’t miss the way Derek’s fingers brush over his. He murmurs a quick “Enjoy” and turns back to Dylan, who wiggles her eyebrows at him.

When he goes to wipe down the sink a few minutes later, Derek is still there. It’s not exactly unwelcome, but still.

“Can I help you?”

“Let me make this up to you.” Derek leans on the counter a little, just enough to draw Will’s eyes to the tattoo on his bicep. Which, oh shit, is also hot. He yanks his eyes away just in time to catch the rest of Derek’s sentence.

“--go to Samwell, and there’s a pretty solid party scene. We’ve got this kegster Saturday for… well, God knows, but if you wanna go, I can get you an in. Jason Street, number 151. Come by at like eleven? It should be good by then.”

“We’ll be there,” Dylan replies before Will can. He makes a mental note to strangle her later.

“Chill,” says Derek. He gives Will one more look and adds “Wear something pretty,” before he turns and heads for the door. His ass is really kind of perfect, Will thinks, and then catches himself. Jesus Christ.

Once Derek’s safely out of the store, Will raises an eyebrow at Dylan.

“Dude, listen.” She raises her hands defensively. “Samwell throws, like, the parties of the century. My brother went to one last year—there’s, like, kegstands, and this crazy punch, and sometimes Jack _Zimmerman_ shows up. You follow hockey, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Will mutters. He’s really going to kill her one of these days. But right now there’s still a big-ass pool of soymilk on the floor, and he needs to clean it up before Craig has another shit fit.

* * *

Of course, it’s fucking _freezing_ when they arrive at Derek’s frat house, because fuck Massachusetts. Dylan’s all dolled up in something shiny (“a hoe never gets cold, Will,” she’d reminded him with a red-lipstick pout), but Will still shivers under his flannel. The porch of 151 Jason Street rocks with a bass beat that echoes in the pit of his stomach. It’s unlikely anyone will hear them knock, but he raises his hand anyway. Before he can, though, the door is yanked open by a monster of a blonde dude, an only-slightly-smaller black dude hot on his heels. Blonde Dude looks them both up and down, grins—Christ, his teeth are massive—and breaks into the worst British accent Will has ever heard.

“Let’s see, red hair… and a hand-me-down robe. You _must_ be a Weasley.”

Will starts to bristle at the hand-me-down comment, but Dylan puts a hand on his arm. “We have an invite,” she croons. “Derek asked us. Will and Dylan?”

Black Dude elbows Blonde Dude out of the way and smiles. His douchebag snapback doesn’t detract from the fact that he’s one of the best-looking guys Will has ever seen, all cheekbones and jawline. “Don’t blame Holtzy,” he says with an easy smile, “his parents didn’t give him enough attention. I’m Ransom, this is Holster, and you guys”—giving each of them a look—“would be in regardless of an invite.”

He can feel his ears turn red on the spot. Ransom is kind of ridiculously hot, and the attention he and Dylan are both getting is definitely a message. Next to him, Dylan grins almost wolfishly, a sure sign that she’s set her sights for the night.

“Bro, that was way cold,” Holster complains as Ransom ushers them in. He turns his weirdly tall attention back to Will. “So, bro, you’re friends with Derek? He’s never invited anyone before.”

“Will thought he was cute and poured a whole container of soymilk on him,” Dylan cuts in before Will can answer. “It’s a, uh, complex Maine courtship technique.”

It’s a bit of a struggle to not trip her.

Holster stops dead and grabs Will’s shoulder. “Wait, _you’re_ the hot barista?”

Ransom spins and grabs his other shoulder. “The one Nursey came home all starry-eyed over?”

“Makes the best macchiatos in existence?”

“His new muse?”

At this point, Will is struggling not to sink through the floor. Dylan, on the other hand, is losing her shit, slumped against a wall and shaking with laughter. Holster, who seems to have no social graces whatsoever, barrels on. “Look, bro, I wouldn’t normally do this and I know it’s a douchey move, but for the sake of our dear old Derek’s heart, are you straight? It’s better to know now than run into an issue later, you know?”

Ransom punches Hoster in the arm. “ _Bro_. That’s such a dick move.” He gestures helplessly as he turns back to Will. “I’m really sorry about him.”

“No, it’s okay. Uh, I’m bi, I guess?”

It comes out more like a question than he intends, but the point gets across. Holster lets go of his shoulder with a satisfied nod. “He’s in the living room. Want a drink, bro?”

Gratefully, Will accepts.

* * *

The party, as Derek promised, is in full swing. The second they enter the living room, Dylan disappears into the flow of the room with Ransom, shrugging at Will: _he’s hot, what can you do?_ He finds himself on the edge of the room with a cup of something Holster called tub juice. It tastes like tequila and regret, but he’s kind of digging it, the familiar heat starting to pool in his stomach. After about fifteen minutes, despite his better judgement, he decides to look for Derek and wanders into the next room, just a little unsteady on his feet and wondering if he’ll even be able to find him in the ruckus.

It doesn’t take long, actually, to find Derek, because he’s dancing. On a coffee table. In what may be leather pants, because some higher power really hates Will today. Just as he drops into a deep bend, they make eye contact, and Will waves a little. Derek, who’s apparently an idiot, waves back wildly and takes a flying jump off the table towards him, narrowly missing the beer pong table. He weaves his way through the crowd to Will and throws his arms around his neck. “Will! Buddy! You made it!”

Will laughs and downs the last of his sticky-sweet tub juice. Whatever’s in it, he’s already on his way to drunk. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Carding his hands through his hair, Derek takes a step back to look Will up and down. His tongue darts over his lips with an almost wolfish smile. “You,” he drawls, “look good out of an apron.” He reaches out one hand to tug at the collar of Will’s flannel, and Will feels the blood rising in his cheeks. “Dance with me?”

They’re both tipsy enough for it to be a bad idea, but he slides his hands down to Derek’s waist and pulls him closer. Derek’s breath is hot on his ear, arms locked around his neck, hips swaying to what Will belatedly realizes is Frank Ocean. The songs—which sound suspiciously like a sex-jam playlist—bleed into each other as they move together. He feels electric, his entire body on edge, so he almost doesn’t catch it when Derek whispers, “I’ve been thinking about this, you know.”

He takes a second to process it. “What?”

“This,” Derek continues. “You, me, here? Wanted it the second I saw you. God, Will, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

 

It’s a line. It’s definitely a line, and goddamn, it’s working. Derek looks at him with soft eyes, somewhere between wanting and hopeful. “Do you?” he whispers.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” Will doesn’t mean to say it, doesn’t even know where they’d go, but the smile that spreads across Derek’s face is worth it.

“Actually,” he murmurs, fingers playing on Will’s neck, “I live right upstairs. We could go, uh, talk if you want.” He steps back and takes Will’s hand. “Yeah?”

Will follows him without hesitation.

* * *

It takes a second to unlock Derek’s door, but when they actually get through it, Will leans against it with a deep breath. Derek turns toward him and reaches for his face, but instead of kissing him, he presses his thumb against Will’s bottom lip and traces it gently. There’s this tension between them, so delicate it might break, and Will is terrified of what happens when it does.

He can’t say who moves first, but between one second and the next Derek is kissing him slow and kind of dirty, hands pressed on either side of Will’s head. His hands are back on Derek’s hips, rucking up the fabric of his shirt to slide across his skin. The world smells like Axe and whiskey and heat and Will _wants_ , wants everything he can get from this in case it never happens again. “Shit,” he says as Derek drops his head to mouth at his throat. “Fuck, I—”

Derek lifts his head. His fingers, which have made their way into Will’s belt loops, give the slightest tug in the direction of the bed. A suggestion. “Do you, uh…”

Will’s mind races. He wants to say a million things— _I want to remember this tomorrow. I don’t want this to be a one time thing. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen._ It’s not enough.

“God, yeah,” he says instead, and Derek grins as he pulls him toward the bed, and then he doesn’t think anymore.

* * *

“Fuck,” Derek says, staring at Will.

Here’s how they got here:

He woke up feeling safe, with Derek’s arms around him in the soft winter-morning light, but the tub juice had left the nastiest taste possible in his mouth. So he’d pushed Derek off him as gently as he could, grabbed his pants, and stumbled down the hall until he found the bathroom, rinsed his mouth, and tiptoed back.

When he walked back in, Derek had sat up, looking at Will with a mix of confusion and abject horror. He blinked slowly and gestured a little between them, asking, “Did we…”

“Yeah,” Will had gotten out.

Derek blinks again. “Fuck,” he says, and then again, “Fuck. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have.”

Will hates the vulnerability that pushes a flush to his cheeks. What do you even say to that? He’s still got dried come on his stomach, for Christ’s sake, and Derek looks like he wants to _die_. He picks up his shirt from where it got discarded the night before and pulls it on, muttering some kind of goodbye and ignoring the “Will, wait!” from behind him. It was stupid, really, thinking someone like that wanted him. He could’ve been anyone.

He storms out of the house, past some naked guy on the couch whose name may or may not be Shitty. It’s kind of a blur. Dylan’s texted him to say she has a ride home. Belatedly, he wonders if things worked out with Ransom, and then promptly decides not to think about it.

Eight hours ago, barely, Derek had crawled over him on the bed and kissed him till he lost his breath. He'd run his hands over the freckles on Will’s chest— _god, it's like you're made of stars_ , moving his fingers over the skin there like he was memorizing it. Will had touched him, too, hands in Derek’s hair and over the smooth tan of his back, anywhere he could touch. Eight hours ago, Derek had cursed, hips stuttering as he came, and pulled Will in for a kiss that burned as much as it soothed.

And when Will had stood to leave, blood still hot, Derek had grabbed his hand and moved over to make room. “Stay,” he'd said. Like he meant it.

That's the part that hurts, really. That he hadn't meant it, and that Will had been dumb enough to believe it.

Will kicks at the ground and concentrates on not crying in public. Across the street, a guy in a lacrosse jersey throws up on a frat house lawn.

* * *

The seventh circle of hell might as well be morning shift at Starbucks. Will’s still bleary-eyed as he locks his car: it’s barely 4:30, still dark out, and sleeting at a toasty thirty- _three_ degrees, because fuck Massachusetts. He turns and heads for the door, but stops suddenly. Because there’s a dude there. Which, objectively, not be happening, because Starbucks doesn’t open for another hour and nobody should be that crazy. But also because it’s an extraordinarily good-looking guy wearing a faded Bright Eyes tee and a sheepish expression.

“Will,” says Derek.

“Derek,” says Will.

Derek starts to move toward him and hesitates, like he’s not sure Will wants to touch him. He shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs his toe on the ground. It’s funny how much smaller he looks out in the open. “Can we talk?”

 _You dick_ , thinks Will, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he asks, “Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know where we are?”

Derek raises an eyebrow and gestures at the door. “Starbucks?”

“Yeah,” he answers, marching past Derek to unlock the door. “We’re at Starbucks. At four-thirty in the goddamn morning. And in a little over three hours, it’s going to be flooded with the absolute worst people in the world screaming about milk temperatures, and I really don’t need an emotional conversation before that just because you wish we hadn’t fucked, yeah?”

“I don’t!”

Will stops dead. He doesn’t dare look back; he couldn’t handle Derek looking at him right now. “You don’t what?”

Derek breathes out slowly. When he speaks, his voice is barely a mumble. “I don’t wish we hadn’t. I mean I wish we hadn’t _then_ , but not… not not at all.”

“You’re not making sense.” His key is jammed in the lock. He wiggles it a few times and curses under his breath. Behind him, Derek’s sneaker scrapes against the sidewalk. After a long and sleety silence, Will turns back without meeting Derek’s eyes. “Look,” he begins, but his voice falters and he has to try again. “Look, my shift lets off at four.”

“I know,” Derek cuts in, and then blushes hard. “Your, uh, your friend told me. Dylan. I got her number from Ransom.” Will is either going to murder her or buy her flowers. Derek keeps talking. “I was going to come at the end of your shift, but I didn’t want to wait that long.”

There are a hundred thousand things spinning around in Will’s head, and he can’t seem to concentrate on any of them. He runs one hand through his hair in an attempt to get things straight. “Come back at four,” he says finally. “We’ll talk then.”

* * *

The thing about dread is that it makes everything seem a lot faster. Will spends the day on autopilot, barely noticing customers’ individual faces. He manages to call out the wrong name for orders three times before Craig notices and he has to get back in the game. Four p.m. rolls around way too soon, though, and sure enough, there’s a mop of dark hair just outside the door. With a deep breath, Will hangs up his apron, crosses himself—Sunday school habits never really seem to go away—and heads for the door. Derek is trying and failing to look casual, leaned against the wall in the same old tee. He perks up as soon as Will approaches. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Will replies with exactly the same fake apathy. Neither of them seems to know what to say, so he asks, “Aren’t you cold?”, gesturing at Derek’s bare arms. “It’s fucking freezing out here, dude, get a jacket.”

Derek grins. “And what, deny people tickets to the gun show?”

He flexes his admittedly nice biceps, and Will rolls his eyes. “You’re such a dork.” He starts to head for his car, Derek lapsing into silence as he falls into step beside him.

By the time they reach Will’s parking space, neither of them has said anything, so he decides to bite the bullet. “You wanted to talk to me?”

Derek shuffles his feet and stares at the ground. He looks a little like he wants to die. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks a little desperately. “Or frozen yogurt? We don’t have to do this here.”

Will shakes his head. “We’re going to do this here, or we’re not going to do it at all.”

Looking absolutely helpless, Derek leans against the car and sinks slowly to the ground. He gestures for Will to join him, and it’s dried off just enough that Will complies. After a long silence, Derek speaks. “So, I fucked up.”

Will scoffs. Derek shoves him a little on the shoulder and continues. “I wish I hadn’t hooked up with you Saturday, but not because I wish I hadn’t hooked up with you at all.” He grimaces a little at the look on Will’s face. “Look, I actually do like you. And I didn’t want you to be a drunk fuck—I wanted to take my time, get to know you, you know? But then Saturday happened and I freaked out. Because I wanted to do that with you when we’d both remember it, and I just messed it up.”

“You like me?” It takes a second to get the words out at all.

Derek shrugs. “Yeah, I do.”

Will shakes his head. “You barely know me.”

“But I want to.” And then Derek turns to him and lifts one hand to his cheek, a whisper of a touch, and Will’s back against the bedroom door with those eyes staring him down. The moment stretches between them like a high wire, but then Derek grins and adds, “I’m a romantic. Like, I still want to suck your dick, but after dinner and a nice stroll through campus, you know?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Will mumbles, and this time he leans forward first to press his lips against Derek’s. Derek responds, tentative, cupping Will’s face like something holy until their teeth click together and Will remembers abruptly that they’re kissing on the ground in a Starbucks parking lot. When he pulls back just enough to look Derek in the face, they burst out laughing. He can feel Derek grinning as he leans in for another kiss.

Here’s how it goes:

They do go on a real date, dinner at a nice Thai place that Derek insists on paying for, and after a slow walk around Lake Quad naming the ducks, Derek makes good on his promise. In the morning, Will wakes to to sleepy green eyes and a whisper that “it feels right, you being here”.

Here’s how it goes:

They bicker about _everything_ , it turns out, from Derek’s English major with a concentration in poetry, which Will thinks absolutely useless compared to computer science, to politics, for which they have to agree to not discuss a couple subjects. But the fights are rarely bad, and the ones that are end with them a little stronger.

Here’s how it goes:

By the time graduation rolls around, they’ve both agreed to move in together. Derek adopts two elderly cats and names them Taxidermy and Vaporwave, and Will fondly calls him an idiot. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, they might be alright.

Here’s how it goes:

Against all odds, they’re happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, I love my soft boys.
> 
> Anyway, long story short, I got sick of coffeeshop aus where people bond slowly over artful caramel lattes because I worked in one for a while and it was hell. You're welcome. Dedicated to Kim, as always, who is my motivation, and Ngozi, who gave me the gift of these two.
> 
> Title from "The Waltz" by Dexy's Midnight Runners:
> 
>  
> 
> _I was the one who came rushing to see you believed in your strategy_  
>  _Followed your course_  
>  _Around this time, yes, I came near to remorse,_  
>  _I never quite did, of course_


End file.
